Judgement and Wrath jh-2

by Matt Hilton

  Bottleneck.

  He couldn't go through the doorway without being cut down by the crossfire of the two guns. But it didn't stop his forward dash. He merely swerved, going left towards the window. He jumped, crashing through it, taking shards of glass and wood with him. He landed on his feet — his injured leg protesting but not giving in — and he spun, already firing both guns.

  These were anonymous men. Not ones he recognised. But he killed them anyway, without discrimination. The man furthest away, who didn't have to turn round to fire, got off a shot, but it zinged away into the bug-filled night.

  Dantalion ignored them; he was more intent on seeking out the two vehicles speeding away from him along the drive. The workers' village was a jumble of silhouettes on the near horizon, but neither car was headed in that direction. They were going for the exit gate out on to the coastal highway. Even if his leg hadn't been paining him he wasn't about to catch them on foot. He required transport.

  A silver sedan was still parked in the area at the back of the house. The two making off were a second sedan and a Porsche. The three cars he'd seen at the gate earlier in the day. Dantalion approached the vehicle, wary that others might be lurking about. He stuffed the Glock 19 into his waistband, but kept the Beretta ready should anyone try to take him as he opened the car door. He leaned in, checking the rear seat, not wanting to be caught out by a silent assassin popping up and putting a bullet in the nape of his neck. No one there. He reached under the steering column, feeling around. It wouldn't be the first car he'd hotwired during his eventful life. Then he forgot that idea, reached instead for the sun visor and flipped it down. A bunch of keys dropped into his palm, one of them the new card-key type. Fate was on his side.

  Getting in, he placed the Beretta on the seat beside him. He fired the engine, pulled away, swung the car in a tight circle and headed up the exit drive after the tail lights of the Porsche.

  The car was this year's Lincoln Town Car, with V8 engine capable of 289 hp and complete with electronic traction control and an automatic rear suspension levelling facility. The vehicle was built with comfort in mind, but it was also built for speed and manoeuvrability. Dantalion could have done far worse.

  Pushing the car up to seventy miles an hour, he felt the Lincoln respond beneath him. He floored the gas pedal and the car continued to pick up speed. The Porsche had a lead on him that he couldn't hope to close on this straight, but the electronic gate at the exit would slow them. He'd catch them there.

  Behind him, pulling out from the blind corner of Jorgenson's house, came a fourth vehicle. It was driven without lights, and joined the procession of speeding vehicles without Dantalion noticing.

  25

  Rink's Boxster was not as fast as the similar 911 Turbo Coupe model Porsche that I'd once had the pleasure of driving, but I couldn't complain. Not when it accelerated from nought to sixty miles an hour in under six seconds and had a top speed approaching 160. Ten seconds later I was up to a hundred and gaining on the sedan in front of me. I flashed my headlights, exhorting Seagram to greater speed, but he held steady and I had to slow down and follow at a moderate speed of ninety-five.

  Passing the cluster of buildings that made up the homes of the estate staff, we kept going on our pre-planned route towards the highway. Glancing in my mirrors, I saw another car peel round in a circle and take up the chase. That would be the killer, then.

  Beside me Marianne had her eyes closed and she was gripping the seat belt across her chest as she might once have gripped her crucifix at times of stress. It made me recall her words.

  'My mother's necklace. I… I don't have it any more.'

  I wondered who did.

  One thing I was pretty sure of now. It wasn't Bradley Jorgenson.

  When I'd been putting the fear of God into him earlier, he had explicitly denied ever harming Marianne and he'd been oddly convincing.

  I'd originally accepted this job with the intention of taking Marianne away from Bradley. If that meant killing him, I'd even prepared myself for that. I'd been led to believe that Marianne was in a violent relationship — which the police photographs proved — but I now believed that it wasn't Bradley who'd done that to her. Domestic violence often hides behind lies and deceit, but in Bradley and Marianne I'd only witnessed genuine tenderness. He loved her the way she deserved to be loved. He hadn't hurt her. Her abuser was the person who now had her cross. Marianne hadn't confirmed who that was, but I had an idea. And if my suspicions proved true, he'd be made to pay.

  First, though, I had to get her to safety. There was a far greater threat to her than the person who'd blacked her eyes and slapped her around — the crazy fucker who was third in line of this cavalcade.

  We still didn't know who the killer was. But I had to pay him his due: the son of a bitch was good. He must have gone through Seagram's security team like a dose of salts. Otherwise he wouldn't be chasing us now.

  Approaching the highway, I saw the brake lights flare on the vehicle I was following. Seagram decelerating rapidly. I braked as well, cursing under my breath.

  Marianne's eyes snapped open. Full of terror.

  'It's OK,' I lied. 'Nothing to worry about.'

  We'd a good lead on the sedan racing after us, but for one thing. The gate that gave exit on to the highway was closed. We should have thought ahead, had it opened from the control room back at the house. As it was, I saw Seagram jump out of the car in front and race to the control panel in the grounds. He stabbed buttons and was running back to the sedan even as the gate began its slow crawl outwards.

  A noise like an angry hornet buzzed by my right shoulder and the windscreen starred. From somewhere behind me I heard the retort of a gun as the sound finally caught up with the supersonic bullet.

  Out of the window, I roared at Seagram, 'Get that fucking car moving!'

  Another bullet swept through the interior of Rink's Porsche and lodged itself in the fancy console. Rink was going to be royally pissed off, but that would teach him. He should have taken more time in selecting his wheels of choice, considering the business he was in. The Porsche's soft top was no defence against a hard-flung knife, let alone high-velocity rounds.

  Back in the sedan, Seagram booted the throttle and pushed the heavy car through the opening gate. He blasted the front fender against the gate, knocking it flying, but also tearing loose a good portion of the wing. Half a million dollars' worth of car was nothing when the alternative was a swift and violent death.

  As we'd agreed, Seagram swung the sedan to the right. Seconds later I went left, straight along the four-lane highway on the wrong side of the road. Two hundred yards on — and immensely thankful that no one had been heading along the road at that time — I powered the Porsche across the gravel bed separating the two carriageways and on to the correct side of the road. The Porsche spat gravel and sand as I accelerated away. On our right was the Inter-Coastal Waterway, and beyond it the lights of the mainland.

  'Is he still following us?'

  Marianne's words caused me to glance in the rear mirror.

  'Yeah.'

  'Dear God,' she whispered.

  The killer had been given two options, right or left. He'd chosen to continue left. I'd have preferred it if he'd gone after Seagram and his passenger rather than me and mine. I was better fixed to protect my charge than Seagram was, but I'd rather have got Marianne well away from harm before turning on the bastard and showing him just who he was messing with.

  Speed was my best weapon.

  I pushed the Porsche up to one hundred and fifty miles an hour. Just a little way behind, I saw that the Lincoln matched me for speed. Maybe it even gained a little. The driver hung his hand out the window. I saw the muzzle flash, but the bark of the gun was lost as we sped on.

  I pressed Marianne down. 'Unclip your belt,' I told her. 'Get down in the footwell. Undo your vest and pull it over your head if you can.'

  The trunk and seats wouldn't stop the bullets, but I guessed that the
shooter would aim that little bit higher, shooting where he'd expect a hit. Comparatively safer than I was, Marianne would be very unlucky if a bullet found her. But that possibility wasn't out of the question.

  The gun fired again, and sparks jumped along the door frame next to my elbow. I couldn't return fire, didn't have the angle. All trying to twist round and firing would achieve was a deceleration, possibly a high-speed collision with the bollards on my right, then a flipping, rolling, body-tearing wreck that would do more harm than the killer's bullets ever could.

  I concentrated instead on pushing the car to the limits of performance. Technical specification of the Porsche Boxster boasts a top speed edging 160 mph, but I saw the odometer register 165, then 170, then 175. But the RPM needle was hovering dangerously in the red zone. Pushing the vehicle to these extremes could wreck the engine, but then again, so could the killer's bullets.

  The road was preformed concrete, and every so often a seam projected above the surface, causing a bumping noise to sound from the tyres. Rocketing along at high speed, the bumping rattled like a drum roll. The accompanying ting of bullets off metal and Marianne's yowls of fear made for an ungodly timpani.

  Approaching the southern extremes of Neptune Island, I made out the sweep of the bridge that took the road across the Waterway. It looked like a humpbacked whale had breached the depths and would at any second flip up its gargantuan tail and send us flying into space. I pressed the Porsche on.

  The Lincoln couldn't match the Porsche for acceleration, but the heavier sedan was gaining along the straight. There was a slight sway on, the way it went from one side of the carriageway to the other, but that was more to do with the killer driving with only one hand on the wheel. He continued to shoot. This time he sent a volley of five bullets. Two of them lifted concrete shards from the road ahead, but three of them impacted the Porsche. None hit me, but I snatched a glance at Marianne. She looked up at me from beneath her Kevlar shield with big, round eyes.

  'Hold tight,' I told her.

  Then I stomped the brake.

  The Lincoln was the much heavier vehicle, but I was counting on the killer's reaction to do more damage than the Porsche could. True to my expectation, he swerved. The front fender clipped the back of the Porsche, lifting us from the road for the space of a very long two seconds or more. I felt weightless, and a tiny portion of my mind expected the car to flip over and disintegrate in a billion pieces. Then the rear tyres found traction again, and I pushed the Porsche forwards, gaining distance on the killer, who had to struggle to control the Lincoln.

  The daring manoeuvre bought us only a few seconds' respite from the bullets. But it had slowed the pursuit somewhat. We were now only averaging 140 mph.

  The bridge swept upwards, then curved to the right. There was no meridian on the bridge, only collapsible plastic markers. A U-Haul truck went by on the other side. The driver swerved in dismay. Distractedly I wondered what he'd think of the Lincoln behind, with the gun poking past the door frame and raining 9 mm Parabellum ammo at me.

  On my right, all that protected us from launching into the sea was a waist-high barrier. Every so often along the way, I saw evidence of where other cars had clipped the barrier, gouging paint but causing little other damage. I doubted they were doing more than twice the average speed when they'd collided, though. I swung the Porsche to the left, straddling the central markers of the two southbound lanes.

  Behind us, I saw the Lincoln roaring towards our back end. When I braked, the killer had been forced to control his vehicle. Now he had decided that it was our turn. He rammed the Lincoln into the rear end of the Porsche, jamming us forwards. He rammed us again. I could feel some of the traction go from beneath me. I dropped a gear, pressed the throttle, surged ahead, taking control again. In response the gun came out of the window once more and another bullet went through the Porsche. The windscreen had had enough. It exploded, some of the glass collapsing inside so that I got a lap full of tiny, grainy squares. I closed my eyes to avoid the splinters and glass particles I felt on my skin.

  It was little more than an exaggerated blink. But when I opened my eyes once more, the Lincoln was surging up alongside the Porsche on my left. It was scattering the plastic markers up the meridian as though they were ten pins, flattening them or throwing them into the air. I swung the Porsche at the Lincoln, but all that achieved was to lock us together momentarily. There was a squeal of buckling metal.

  I got my first look at the man behind the wheel. I'd been correct about the pale smear on his chin. The guy had the face of a ghost. Or some other more evil, ethereal creature. His thin blond hair knitted a pattern over his features from the wind driving in through the open window, and I only caught a snatch of his eyes. Pale blue slits. But it was enough to see that he was as psychopathic as every other nutcase who killed for fun.

  He nodded at me, as if in recognition.

  Here, I thought, do you recognise this?

  I lifted my SIG Sauer left-handed and fired at him, unloading half the clip as fast as I could pull the trigger. The noise inside the Porsche was deafening. I didn't hear my rounds smack his car, but I saw his windscreen implode. Sparks and particles of metal flew off the bonnet. Something burst in the engine and there was a gout of steam. No blood, unfortunately.

  The Lincoln dipped on its suspension. He was braking. Then he was behind me and I couldn't see to shoot any more. A quick glance at the odometer showed me I'd decelerated almost forty miles an hour. But we were still travelling at over one hundred. It was insane. Something else — our collision had taken us back towards the barrier on my right. The wing mirror was snatched off and went tinkling into the darkness behind us. I jinked left, to get away from the metal barrier.

  Now the Lincoln was nosing up to my bumper. He nudged the Porsche. We slewed. Almost had me with the PIT manoeuvre police patrol vehicles occasionally employ to stop fugitive vehicles. Unfortunately for him — very fortunately for us — his vehicle hadn't been in the optimum position to spin us out. But it did make the Porsche's back end swerve towards the central median, blasting more of the plastic markers out of commission, the front end juddering for traction on the concrete.

  Marianne wasn't the only one yelling. I probably had the edge on anger, though. I grappled with the steering, righting the Porsche, but the Lincoln was now alongside me, and this time the killer was directly in line with me. In his left hand I saw a Beretta 90-two. In the split second it took to register the make and model of the gun I also calculated my chances of avoiding the bullet aimed at my skull. Zero or nil. Take your pick.

  He mouthed something at me, but I didn't catch it.

  In one of those slow-motion moments of ultra-clarity, I saw his index finger caress the trigger. In reflex I started to duck. But, even in slow motion, the bullet wouldn't register.

  26

  He'd lost count of the times he'd been back and forth over and under this selfsame bridge in the last day, but Dantalion had a feeling that this wouldn't be the last. Even after he finished Hunter and his unseen passenger, he was going to have to go back after the second vehicle that had headed off up the coastline towards Jupiter Island.

  He'd recognised the dupe immediately the sedan had turned right, while Hunter had headed left. They were attempting to split his targets with the hope that he'd be frustrated and give up the chase. He wasn't the kind of man to back down, so they'd assume he'd continue hunting Jorgenson and Dean, but not until he rallied and got his act together. Likely they thought that would give them the opportunity to prepare for his next assault. They couldn't have expected that he'd chase one of them with unabated determination.

  If Seagram had been telling the truth earlier, Hunter would be Marianne Dean's chaperone, so it was probable that the woman was in the Porsche with him. She was most likely hunkered down in the footwell so she made a smaller target. He didn't mind killing Marianne first. That had always been the plan, what he'd almost forced Jorgenson into agreeing to yesterday on Baker I
sland. And he definitely didn't mind killing Hunter.

  It had been an exhilarating chase up until now. But it was time to end it. Dantalion saw his opportunity. Hunter was a damn good defensive driver to have controlled the Porsche after he'd rammed it into a sidelong skid, but in doing so he'd lost some of his forward volition. Plus he must have dropped the gun. Dantalion swerved round the Porsche and came parallel with the driver's door, smiling as his theory was proven.

  Both Hunter's hands were back on the wheel, the gun out of sight. Dantalion lifted the Beretta. Aimed it directly at Hunter's face as it swung to look at him. The man didn't look alarmed, he just had a grim set to his jaw.

  'Hello, Hunter,' Dantalion said. 'And goodbye!'

  Hunter made a token attempt at saving himself, but a bullet would always be faster than human reaction.

  He pulled the trigger.

  And heard only an empty click.

  'Shit!'

  He was a man governed by numbers, yet he had to have miscounted. He was positive that there had been one last bullet in the gun. Seventeen rounds. But then he remembered. When he'd reloaded, shoved in the fresh magazine, he hadn't racked one into the firing chamber as he had when first loading the gun. He hadn't miscounted. He'd made an error of gun craft.

  A bigger error would be to dwell on the fact. He quickly traded the Beretta for the Glock 19. It was a matter of no more than two seconds, but as he tracked his vision on Hunter the man was no longer in sight. Neither was the Porsche!

  Hunter had braked, and the Lincoln had sailed on by.

  Worse than that, Hunter was now behind him lifting his own gun. Through the gaping hole in the windshield Hunter fired. The flash of the gun was like a strobe light. Bullets zinged through the Lincoln. Three missed, lifting padding from the headrest on the passenger seat. One of them scored a hot line along the flesh of his jaw just below his left ear.